


Pardon me, Professor, I seem to have fallen into your lap!

by fourfreedoms



Category: Generation Kill RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-02
Updated: 2011-11-02
Packaged: 2017-10-25 15:17:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/271773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourfreedoms/pseuds/fourfreedoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alexander Skarsgard is Stark Sands' very poorly dressed professor. Inspired by ASkars' horrifying outfit at comic-con 2009.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pardon me, Professor, I seem to have fallen into your lap!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [miss_saigon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_saigon/gifts).



Stark’s bio anthro professor is a total fox. He wears about fifty layers that he doesn’t need, in colors that don’t match, and the effect is often horrible. So maybe nobody else knows that he’s a fox, but Stark does. He’s always chewing on the end of a pencil and looking up over the edges of his coke bottles in this way that Stark feels in his heartbeat. If Professor Skarsgard weren’t teaching bio anthro, Stark never would’ve taken it. He’d finished up all of his science requirements ages ago, he’s graduating in four months, he’s got lacrosse practice every day of the week, and duties to Kappa Alpha Epsilon, but Stark needed a challenge.

He tells Hugh about it in the KAE kitchen one morning over breakfast. “He’s Swedish and like 6’4 and wears these really terrible clothes, but sometimes, just sometimes, you’ll catch a moment of him, and you know, underneath all that crap, he’s totally effing gorgeous.”

Hugh eyes him blearily over his coffee and says, “You are so gay.”

“Yes, thank you,” Stark replies straddling the back of a chair, fresh from his morning run. “I just have to figure out what my hook’s going to be.”

“Suck his dick? I heard from an annoying little freshman that you’re good at that. Which, I thought we agreed no more pledges!”

Stark laughs. “You agreed, I never said anything.”

“Ugh, get out of my sight, you cad,” Hugh bites out and rests his head on the table. Stark decides right then to go for it at the next lecture.

“Excuse me Professor, I wanted to talk to you some more about the metabolic load hypothesis,” he says after class while Professor Skarsgard is zipping his laptop into its case. “Are you free for office hours or should I make an appointment?”

“Sands, right?” Professor Skarsgard asks, waiting for his nod before continuing. “I have office hours tomorrow from 2 to 5. Can you make that?”

Stark nods.

He shows up at four on the dot and listens to Professor Skarsgard talk about lactational amenorrhea for five minutes before interrupting him. “Yeah, because of luteotropic hormone, I know all that. I did the reading.”

Professor Skarsgard leans back in his chair. “So what seems to be the problem?”

Stark blows out a breath, shoots Professor Skarsgard an up and down look, and then gets to his feet and walks around the desk. It’s crazy, but he’s just going to go for it. If Professor Skarsgard tells him to fuck off, he’ll just say he read the signals wrong. Which you know, not a total lie, since there’re no signals at all.

Professor Skarsgard watches him, bemused, as he steps closer. When he’s standing beside the professor's chair he bends down to gently pull the horrible glasses off. Professor Skarsgard doesn’t stop him. He blinks up at Stark and Stark sets the glasses down on his desk. He sweeps their mouths together, almost surprised when Professor Skarsgard kisses back. It’s a desperate press of lips, teeth clashing and tongues sliding together. Heat rushes through him and Stark knows definitively this really was one of his better ideas. Professor Skarsgard tugs him into his lap and Stark moans and sucks the professor’s tongue into his mouth. The low throaty sounds that Professor Skarsgard makes drive him a little crazy. Professor Skarsgard runs a hand down his back and then tugs, cupping Stark’s ass, so that he’s sitting directly on Professor Skarsgard’s dick.

When he pulls back Professor Skarsgard is smirking at him.

“You think I didn’t know?” he says, brow raised. “What with you sprawling in the back of the room, looking at me the way you were.”

“What are you going to do about it?” Stark breathes, their noses are only inches apart and he can feel Professor Skarsgard breathing like it was his own pair of lungs.

“Drop my class,” Professor Skarsgard replies and kisses him again.

They make out like that on the chair, Stark sprawled across his lap for what seems like hours. His mouth feels blood-hot and swollen and it tingles. He thinks he’s never going to get enough air. Stark finally works his hands between their bodies and starts shoving the many layers out of the way until he’s bared skin. He breaks the kiss to look down at his handiwork.

“Jesus, Professor Skarsgard, why do you hide this?” Stark asks, running a hand down Professor Skarsgard’s tan skin. The muscles in his abs flutter under his fingertips. Stark shakes his head. “God, that is such an awful sweater.”

Professor Skarsgard laughs and kisses Stark’s throat, nipping and sucking until Stark is practically writhing on his lap. “Call me Alex,” he says when Stark is starting to think he could come from that touch alone and tugs Stark’s zipper down.

Stark arrives fifteen minutes late to practice with two hickeys on his neck and an afterglow from the best handjob of his life. He’s going to have wet dreams about Alex’s hand wrapped around his dick for the rest of his life. His coach shakes his head. “What poor freshman did you fell this time?”

Stark shrugs and stretches, shirt riding up, enjoying the way one of their new recruits has to look pointedly away. “Eh, sorry, I had to turn in some forms to drop a class.”

Coach snorts. “Give me six laps around the track for being late and two more for being a little shit.”

Stark grins and sets off. “Love you, coach.” At seven tonight he’s going to meet Alex at The Anchor Bar and then they’re going to go back to his place. Alex told him to be prepared to be fucked up against the wall, on Alex’s kitchen table, in the shower, and maybe if he was good, in his bed. With that promise looming over him, he doesn’t care how many laps coach makes him run.


End file.
